


The Burning Men

by Vedicanarchist



Category: The Wicker Man (1973)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Fantasy, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Paganism, Smut, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vedicanarchist/pseuds/Vedicanarchist
Summary: Sergeant Neil Howie is fated to burn in the Wicker Man. But in the dark of the night Lord Summerisle burns for him, as well.





	The Burning Men

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters belong to Robin Hardy and Anthony Shaffer. 
> 
> This story follows the film while using some small elements of the novelization. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a comment and/or kudos. I’m always looking to improve, and your feedback is truly appreciated!

Tonight, a young boy named Ash Buchanan would lose his virginity to Willow MacGregor, who personified Goddess Aphrodite on the island. The members of the cult strummed their guitar. They sang softly in celebration of the sweet pleasures of the flesh. Willow and Ash writhed on the bed, punctuating the song with giggles. But Lord Summerisle turned away, and retired for the night.

Summerisle stalked about his greenhouse, kilt-clad and looking very androgynous. If Willow was Aphrodite in the flesh, then Summerisle embodied both God of the Sun and Goddess of the Fields. He was the Sinister Teaser, who straddled the boundaries of gender. Idly, he watched two snails on a leaf make love. His grandfather had once told him that terrestrial snails had both male and female genitalia. Summerisle smiled as each snail gently penetrated the other.

“I think I could turn and live with animals,” he mused. “Not one of them is respectable, or unhappy, all over the earth.” He’d come to love Walt Whitman’s poems when he realized that his tastes did not run entirely to women. Whitman was the prophet of sexuality, as far as he was concerned. His smile twisted as it occurred to him that he and Sergeant Howie could be just like the snails, if not for his killjoy Christian faith.

The prim policeman was all alone in his bedroom, squirming like a worm on a hook at the sweet sounds of lovemaking. In another world, Summerisle would be the one to introduce him to the pleasures of the flesh. He would coax him into his arms, and play his body as skillfully as his followers plucked the strings of the guitar. Summerisle would make him beg to be allowed to come, just as Willow had Ash in her loving grasp tonight…

Summerisle stared resentfully out the window. His dark eyes burned a hole in the Sergeant’s room. He could see that the lights were on. Evidently, Sergeant Howie was still struggling with his body’s natural impulses. Both of them were so lonely. Sometimes, Summerisle wondered if this year’s dreadful harvest was caused by the dearth of love in his life. Apples symbolized love in Celtic paganism, and the whole island ran like a train on the force of Summerisle’s personality. He had never lacked for sex, of course. Summerisle could have any man or woman he wanted. In fact, Summerisle and the schoolteacher, Miss Rose had sex on a regular basis to seal their political alliance. But he did not seek her out tonight. Something about their trysts left him feeling emptier than ever.

Summerisle planned to send Willow, Miss Rose, or the Librarian as his proxies to seduce the Sergeant, and test this maddening resilience. They were the Brides to his Dracula, just as Sergeant Howie was his Jonathan Harker. Summerisle would use the women to mediate the tension between him and the Sergeant. Summerisle relished the game of winding his beetle, up and around a string.

That night, Summerisle dreamt that he lounged on a throne. The darkness pressed in against him. Summerisle was dressed as the Emperor Nero, with robes of purple silk, and a golden crown of laurels on his head. Sergeant Howie was Christ Himself. He had a crown of thorns on his head and wore robes of white. The Sergeant was nailed on the cross in front of the throne. Summerisle reached for him, desperately. Sergeant Howie glanced up from the cross and saw his yearning. He pried his hands, soaked in blood, off the cross. He gingerly stumbled to the throne, and Summerisle held his arms out to him. Sergeant Howie climbed onto his lap. His lips were the rosy red of the blood on his hands. He kissed Summerisle tenderly. Summerisle tugged him closer. He professed his adoration, and begged forgiveness for his sins. Sergeant Howie granted him absolution. He garlanded Summerisle’s neck with his arms. He sunk down onto him with a gasp, and rode him like the wind, there on the throne in this place-out-of-time. In his mind’s eye, Summerisle could see a Wicker Man burning. The fire swayed gracefully in the breeze. He breathed in the aroma of roasted flesh. Suddenly, he realized it was his own flesh. The throne vanished, and both of them were inside the Wicker Man. Summerisle screamed. Sergeant Howie closed his eyes, folding his hands in prayer. There was a beatific smile of surrender on his face as he embraced his lover. Summerisle felt a sense of peace wash over him. The two became one as they burned, and fell back into the darkness.

Summerisle sat up, shivering in his bed. The first thing he saw was an oil painting on the wall. He had done this masterpiece himself. The painting depicted Saint John the Baptist, yielding to the Princess Salome’s desires. Of course, the scene in the painting did not exist in the play by Oscar Wilde.

Summerisle clasped a pillow to his chest. He rubbed the softness against his cheek. Try as he might, he could not recreate the feeling of the Sergeant in his arms. Was this how Salome felt when she realized that John the Baptist would never be hers? Summerisle could not blame her for striking off his head.

On the surface, Sergeant Howie was a dull, conservative stick-in-the-mud with no sense of humor. But Summerisle had done a lot of research on him before choosing him for the sacrifice. The Sergeant was a wholesome fruit, deliciously unspoiled by the corruption of his time. He was kind to animals and the poor, and surprisingly open to people of other faiths. He was even engaged to a woman of a different Christian denomination. The Sergeant had a sweet, innocent, and foolish Christian faith that reminded Summerisle of a time when he wasn’t so cynical...Punch the Fool was a good name for Sergeant Howie.

Miss Rose often wondered if Summerisle really believed in the pagan religion they followed. Summerisle saw flashes of doubt in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. She could not know the truth, of course. No one on the island did. Summerisle had become adept at hiding his feelings. He had to, in order to maintain his hold on the island.

Sergeant Howie was going to die, so he alone deserved to know the truth. Summerisle was very much looking forward to their first official meeting. Summerisle was willing to bare his soul before him. The truth was that Summerisle was a post-Christian atheist, much like his grandfather before him. A small part of him had once entertained the thought of the Christian God. It had been a very small part of him, mind you, and such a long time ago. Summerisle’s faith had faded when he realized he was attracted to other men. Christianity was backward, and made no room for men like him. Since then, Nietzsche showed him that God was Dead. There was no objective truth, certainly not about sexual matters. Reality was shaped by human perceptions. All gods, both Christian and pagan, were merely social constructions sustained by the power of faith. Gods died when the people stopped believing in them, and Summerisle desperately wanted to believe in the old Gods, the way his father did. If his faith was strong enough, perhaps he could will the God of the Sun, and the Goddess of the Fields to exist. He could will them to accept the Sergeant as a sacrifice, and send him back to Summerisle in the form of fruit. If Summerisle could not have Sergeant Howie in life, then surely he could have him in death.

Salome kissed the severed head of John the Baptist on the mouth. She bit it like a fruit. Summerisle would have Sergeant Howie burned to death in the Wicker Man. The flames would lick at that beautiful body, much like Summerisle’s tongue might have worshipped it. His burning flesh would waft a sensual fragrance. He would undergo Death, and Rebirth. The Sergeant would come back to him in the form of apples, and Summerisle would sink his teeth into the fruit the way he longed to penetrate him in life. Summerisle knew his plan might fail, but it was worth it for the chance to slake this powerful lust.

It was worth the risk of facing his own appointment with the Wicker Man.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, please consider commenting or leaving a kudos!! Constructive criticism is also welcome.


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